


Mullets and Mannerists

by welcome_equivocator



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, 16th & 17th Century CE RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Crack, Gen, M/M, Mannerism, Wrecking hotel rooms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 10:55:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1742222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/welcome_equivocator/pseuds/welcome_equivocator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cellini's team is doing pretty well in the playoffs, but his new, hot-headed line partner, acquired at the trade deadline, threatens to undo all their hard work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mullets and Mannerists

**Author's Note:**

> This is a terrible, awful, horrible thing rife with stupid, stupid jokes about art history and hockey. The idea was not mine, but for some reason I wrote it.

It had been going pretty well with the new kid so far, Ben had to admit. Sure they’d had their disagreements in the past, and Mike was still leading the team in penalty minutes since he’d arrived, but their defense was now ticking along beautifully and they had their best penalty kill unit in years. When Mike wasn’t the reason they were on the penalty kill to begin with.

Also, so what if the kid liked to pull stupid pranks, like photoshopping mullets onto all of their pictures and delivering them to the press. The internet had had some fun with those. Ben, however, had been secretly impressed. It had been some  _great_ photoshop, and maybe kid had some skills beyond punching people he wasn’t supposed to.

Tonight they were slumped around the hotel bar watching the west coast game finish up. Battista and most of the others had gone up to their rooms already, but Comin and Theo were in deep conversation about some new play Vasari had devised. Ben wasn’t sure whether the bar was the best place to be talking about this, but as even he couldn’t understand half of what they were saying, he figured they were safe enough.

Mazzola, on the other hand, was staring thoughtfully into his glass, his ridiculously long limbs claiming two of the barstools. As long as they looked now, when he stretched out for a puck, somehow they got even longer. His save percentage was nothing short of astounding, and all bets were on him winning the Vezina this year. 

Ben was just thinking about heading upstairs and was about to go over and suggest to Mazzola that he get some rest too, when Mike slid onto the stool next to him.

"Hey Ben."

"Hey."

"We looked pretty good out there last night."

"Don’t get too cocky, kid. You’re great on the penalty kill, but that works a lot better when you’re not in the box."

Mike made a vague noise and turned to the TV, which was showing some kind of montage.

"Those were the days, huh?"

Ben snorted. “You and those mullets again?”

"Flowing hair and no helmets. Real hockey players. Warriors." He grinned.

"That smile of yours might not be so nice if you’d been playing back then."

"Aw, Ben. I didn’t know you cared." He batted his eyelashes with a vengeance, and Ben promptly threw a napkin in his face.

"Shut up." Ben checked the time. "I should be getting to bed."

"Want some company?"

"I think you have a better shot at winning the Lady Byng."

* * *

 

When Ben got to the warm-up the next day, Vasari was having a “private conversation” with Mike, which meant the whole team could hear him yelling NO MORE SUSPENSIONS at the defenseman. Mike accepted his scolding by frowning down at his skates before heading over to where Battista and Comin were warming up.

“ _Now_  I know why you got traded over here” said Battista when he arrived. “Maybe try to stay out of trouble tonight?”

"Whatever, Red." 

"You’re just jealous of the beard, Patchy."

"Fuck off."

Battista shrugged and went over to discuss something with Theo, taking Comin with him. Mike toyed with the puck at his feet.

Watching the exchange, Ben gritted his teeth. This wasn’t shaping up well at all. Battista was probably Ben’s favorite winger, a genuinely nice guy and, in general, an older, steadying influence. With him and Comin and Theo on the first line, he especially liked their chances tonight on special teams, but Mike was acting like a brat, which wasn’t good, especially when they weren’t on home ice. Ben had certainly been stupid enough in his younger days to know a storm brewing when he saw one, and he hoped against hope that Mike might simmer down before he did something really, really dumb. 

* * *

 

Mike, of course, had gone out and done something really, really dumb. He’d been spoiling for a fight, and at the first opportunity, he’d picked up a major for fighting. Then in the third period, there’d been an awful slashing incident that caused a lot of blood, and had the commentators talking about a suspension. And, of course, the other team had scored on both those power plays. 

“Talk to him,” Vasari had snarled at Ben after the press was done tearing him apart. “Fix. This.”

And that’s how Ben found himself standing at Mike’s door at an ungodly hour. When his first few taps didn’t result in anything but a vague crash, Ben knocked harder.

Finally, Mike came to the door looking like he’d crawled through a junkyard.

“What do you want, Ben. I’m busy.”

“I can see that.” Ben could see enough of the room to know there’d be an extra charge on their hotel bill. A large one.

“Well?”

“I’m coming in.”

“No you’re not.”

Wordlessly, Ben pushed his way past Mike, and surveyed the wreckage.

“You did a pretty nice job here. Almost as nice as the job you did on Tomas’ jaw.”

“Fuck off. Did Vasari send you in here?”

“You know he did.”

“Fuck him.”

“It was a FUCKING DIVE, Mike! You didn’t have to go the fuck after him. And look what happened.”

“Yeah, the winning goal bounced in off your ass.”

“Thanks for pouring salt in that wound, Mike. I needed some more of that after the press. I really did.”

“Any time.”

They glared at each other. Finally, Mike shrugged at him.

“Want a drink?”

“Might as well.”

As Mike dug what was left out of the minibar, Ben looked around for a place to sit. Mike had overturned all the chairs, and some of them looked like they had broken legs, so Ben settled on the edge of the bed as Mike returned with small bottle of Johnny Walker.

“Here.” He said. “Sorry there’s no glass. I might have broken them all.”

“You’re more trouble than you’re worth, you know that?”

Mike just flipped him off and returned to his own bottle.

Ben had just about had it. “They’ve got your number, man. Can’t you just settle down? Tomas was baiting you! And now his brother’s going to be out for your blood.”

Mike drained his bottle and reached for another. “Well, you’d know about that, wouldn’t you.”

“What the fuck did you say.”

“I said-“

Ben grabbed him by the collar.  “YOU LITTLE SHIT. ARE YOU TRYING TO LOSE US THIS SERIES.”

Mike just grinned up at him. “Still upset about Gunnarsson, huh?”

Ben let go of Mike’s collar like he’d been burned and Mike fell back on the bed, laughing.

“So it’s all right for you to put someone in the hospital, but no one else can even bloody a lip, right?” He pushed himself up onto his elbows and stared at Ben. “I hear Gunnarsson’s coaching career is going  _really_ well.”

Ben punched him. Mike stared. Then he started laughing again and couldn’t stop. 

“You FUCKER.”

Ben swung for him again, missed, and then Mike came up under his arm and tackled him onto the bed. When Ben tried to regain his balance, Mike grabbed his wrist, and suddenly, unexpectedly, they were kissing. It was actually kind of nice, Ben thought, if incredibly violent, and then he realized what he was doing was a Very Bad Idea and ran for the door. Reaching it, he managed to compose himself and stared back at Mike, who was smirking.

“This isn’t over, you know.” Ben said.

“Glad to hear it.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Maybe I’ll win the Lady Byng after all?”

“I wouldn’t count on it. But do you think you can shape up? I’d honestly be impressed.”

“Fine. I was getting bored anyway. I think I need something to seal the deal though.”

As Ben rolled his eyes, his glance fell on the (miraculously unbroken) cruet that had fallen from a room service tray. With much solemnity, he placed it on the bedside table.

“There you are. The [Cellini Memorial Salt Shaker](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cellini_Salt_Cellar). For turning over a new leaf. Now get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> A guide to the names:
> 
> Mike (Caravaggio) and Ben (Cellini) are defensemen. Ben is team captain.  
> Battista (Rosso Fiorentio) is on right wing, and Comin (Tintoretto) is on left. Theo (El Greco) is their center.  
> Mazzola (Parmagianino) is the goalie.  
> Vasari (Giorgio Vasari) is their head coach.
> 
> Tomas (Ranuccio Tomassoni) is a winger for the unnamed other team. 
> 
> Gunnarsson is a reference to the arquebusier the historical Cellini killed because the arquebusier had caused the death of Cellini's brother.


End file.
